Becoming a Persuader Again

I’d had it. Living in a home, or should I say, institution, for senior citizens was unpleasant at best. But it was my own decision to move there because my osteoporosis had put me in a wheelchair. Oh, the room, all 400 square feet of it was pleasant enough. There was a private bathroom and a so-called kitchen: no stove, but a mini-fridge, microwave, tiny sink and lots of cabinets. 

There were activities galore—Bingo was the residents favorites, every day after lunch, the majority with one card, and the bolder with two, and constant repeating of numbers, and players shouting Bingo, only to find they’d screwed up. It brought back memories of my mother playing in the Church lunchroom turned into a Bingo parlor on Tuesday evenings with big prizes, and Mom working her 10 cards at the speed of lightening even when she was in her late eighties.

Back to the present; here we are supposed to enjoy occasional lousy entertainers, condescending, unsuccessful, retired from careers that never took off. If you ever stayed at a cheap hotel in the Catskills or Poconos in the 40s and 50s you were pleased to be encountering young comedians just starting out and clever, or young singers you’d see later on TV, having “made it,” here were the “never made it” kind.

 If you were used to Broadway, Carnegie Hall or Las Vegas shows, you avoided these events here that, no matter who was entertaining, presented the same oldies for the oldies before them. The third time one of these “performers” sang “Sweet Caroline,” “New York, New York,” “Hound Dog,” “What a Wonderful World,” “Under the Old Apple Tree,” etc., etc., I left the room vowing never to try again.

Then there was the small gym that stood empty except when a physical therapist could persuade a patient to come into it instead of being treated in their own rooms. Here’s where I met a few, well three, kindred souls as we did some exercising in the early afternoon while the Bingoers did their thing. 

There were card games, jigsaw puzzles, art lessons (remember paint by numbers), attended by anywhere from 10 to 12 of the 90 residents. Most residents stayed in their rooms watching TV and emerging only to have meals—breakfast from 8 to 10am, lunch from 12 to 1, dinner from 5 to 6. School cafeteria memories assaulted me.

And the food—promoted by the sweet young sales folk and in the brochures as “fresh, made in our kitchens by wonderful chefs, available all day.” Unfortunately, reality didn’t mesh with expectations. Chicken breasts so overcooked you had to ask for a steak knife to cut them, fish in breading so thick and greasy Red Lobster would be embarrassed to serve them, pasta cooked so far from al dente it disintegrated into tasteless slime, vegetables overcooked (and when asked why, the powers that be explained that most residents couldn’t chew very well. “Lots of dentures,” they’d add with a weak smile.) Later, when you’d try complaining to those in charge, they’d say with a smile, "I'll look into it.” Translation—it’s the way it is, stop being a pest.

Ah, the residents! Most were dumped here by families too busy with jobs and children or too tired of hearing about aches and pains and constant complaints about the noise the teenaged grandchildren made, would decide to find a “nice place” to park them. So they persuaded them to sell their homes and join the potential friends they were going to make in this wonderful place, “You’ll love it dear. And you’ll be safe.”

The best of these places were expensive, very expensive, but homes bought after WWII brought in enough money that combined with Social Security and pensions and tax breaks, were manageable for a few years. And given most residents were over eighty on entering, the money probably would be enough for the stay before the

awaited casket.

However, within a few months of living in a place like this, I, always

a bit of a rebel, decided to find a way to persuade these lethargic, often frightened by the rules, and to me, cowardly human beings to wake up and work to make changes.  

As a civil rights marcher who’d joined the Mississippi summer voting advocates and saw MLK deliver his “I have a Dream speech,” who protested the Vietnam war, who joined the women’s movement burning bras, who supported liberal causes and candidates, who never took her husband’s name, began my campaign softly, not wanting to scare the old dears.

I was confident of my ability to make a difference since I’d had a long, successful career as a consultant in change management before finally retiring at 76, when travelling had become just too hard. 

My first foray involved joining the small group in the fireplace room after dinner (electric fireplace, of course, and the name was really emblazoned on the door put no one ever used it). I wondered why they gathered there, since no one ever seemed said a word, except, "Good night," on leaving.

After sitting there for a half hour for a few days, I broke the silence, and asked what they thought about the proposed cuts to Social Security, highlighted as a danger by only magazine I ever saw anyone reading—the AARP monthly. Of course, few were interested, looking at me as though I was demented.

Luckily, the woman in charge of "Activities" was in need of more activities to put on her calendar. So when I approached her after she’d gotten no responses to her appeal to residents for ideas of what they’d enjoy doing, what they were interested in, she was more than willing for me to start a weekly, what I called, “Chat Group.”

Oh, I devoted the first few of the weekly Chat Groups to such stimulating subjects as “where did you go to school,” “did you walk there or go by bus,” “what were your favorite recess activities,” “what were your favorite subjects.

Once the group had expanded to twenty-five, I’d add an occasional question related to climate change or crime rates, or how much things cost today as opposed to when they were young. Few responded not liking to possibly offend someone, so I’d present facts for them to think about.

A month in, when they’d become comfortable with me, I asked about the issue of Social Security. Did they know there were plans by some politicians to increase the age of retirement? Did they know some said the money for Social Security could run out?

Again after harking on the subject for two weeks, I asked if they would want to let the politicians who were against Social Security know they did not want to see Social Security changed.

I could see the fear on their faces. One shyly asked what would happen if they did that, could they go to jail? As afraid of that as doing any complaining about anything—like the dining room being so cold food was never warm once it was in front of you for five minutes.

Patience, I told myself as I explained they were not going to be in any danger. And the following week I presented a petition we could send to members of Congress and the Senate as a group.   

 Not unexpected were the questions from the nervous Nellies, “Would I have to put my name on it?” “If my son heard about it, would he call me an idiot and get angry.” “Should we find a lawyer to approve it?

I explained that I would send it saying that the petition was from a group of residents at the Sunshine Senior Living Home, but use only my name on it. And so with their reluctant agreement, I emailed the petition to a group of lawmakers.

“What happened?” a number of them asked breathlessly at the next meeting, and prepared, I read them the “Thank you for contacting me. I will take your opinion into account” type letters I’d received. I said that the only downside to the letter was being put on all those politicians’ mail list. Of course, most of them had no idea what I meant by a mail list.

They were smiling and relieved and some seemed so proud of themselves. I took the next step, contacting a reporter at the local TV station, telling her she might want to a piece on the opinions of senior citizens to the idea of tampering with Social Security.

A week later she showed up with a camera crew. I arranged for us to meet her outside at one of the clusters of chairs dotted around the lawn. I arranged that because I had a feeling the administration at Sunshine might object to my having used the name of the place.

Oh they did, telling me I should not have done it—the shareholders might not like it. I apologized and went on my merry way.

They did not know what I planned next. The food situation had grown worse. There had been a switch of providers to a cheaper source. Residents so unable to deal with the meals would take a few bites and then wait for the desert cart to come around and fill up on sweets.

I explained we needed to make signs saying things like, “We are hungry.” “We need fresh vegetables.”

Again a chorus of “they’ll get mad at us.” And so, over the next few weeks I explained that this was what their grandfathers and fathers had done to bring about Unions. They’d all had family who were union members, some still did.  

Eventually, about a dozen residents, including my three friends, were emboldened to act. They agreed to join me in marching in front of Sunshine with the signs.

And so our little band of seniors in wheelchairs, using walkers, or canes went out with our signs, greeted by TV cameras from the station I’d called again, as well as people with their smartphones who saw the TV set up and got out of buses and cars passing by, all curious--and our little protest went viral.  

I was proud I’d managed to persuade my new friends to act, but when management told me to leave as a result of what they called “the problems I caused,” I was agreeable. I had found a way to make a difference, to be happy. 

I called my son who lived in another state and asked him to find me a place near him to move to. I explained why I needed a new place, which had him laughing.

When he recovered from his revelry, he said, “Ah my mother is back to her old self.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I feel alive again.”

“Explain your new goals in a single sentence,” he said, a line 

I’d always used on him.

“Okay, that’s easy. I am going to go from one of those places to another to persuade old folk that age and the ailments that come with it, doesn’t mean they can’t make a difference.”

“Gottcha, Mom. I’ll find a place for you to do your magic. But fair warning, I’m marching a lot to protest police brutality in this city.”

Laughing, I told him that was great, but added “let’s try not to meet in court. And make sure you have bail money with you."